Soliloquy, On Writer's Block

Who am I, ever so alone?
My body without a head
talks in solitaire.

Where am I, a pen gripped
with trembling fingers, then
zeroing in on nothingness.

A page, as honest as a
mirror, reflects an image so
serene yet stupefied.

You, page, I say, distracts
my thoughts and my poise,
and waste my ink.

My nouns and verbs, they
find you unsuitable to write
on, and my pen detest you.

You square sheet, why are
your dimension the way it
is sized?

Hieroglyphics should be fun
to engage my attention, but
then who cares?

It's unfair concentrating on
these unimaginable stuff of
distractions.

Look, my pen, it's a Parker's.
my ever friendly companion,
as I contend with the deadline.

Holding it, it besmirches also
my field of vision, for why am
I to hold you in high regard?

The wall clock I now see as
it strikes 12 in the morning
since I started at 4 PM.

I wonder why the clock was
ever invented as it only
measures its trivialities.

Of all the important things
in this world, why do I sit
here with nil to show for it?

Crumpled paper, crushed
with vengeance, fill the
thrash bin and my head.

Dully do I flip the pen aside
as if in relief from my burden,
for my tools are inefficient!

June 19, 2012
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